the kite runner-第63节

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a　pair　of　scissors　and　calmly　told　me　to　cut　off　all　my　hair。　He　watched　while　I　did　it。
　I　didn　t　step　out　of　the　house　for　weeks。　And　when　I　did；　I　heard　whispers　or　imagined　them　everywhere　I　went。　That　was　four　years　ago　and　three　thousand　miles　away　and　I　m　still　hearing　them。　
　Fuck　　em；　　I　said。
She　made　a　sound　that　was　half　sob；　half　laugh。　　When　I　told　you　about　this　on　the　phone　the　night　of　khastegari；　I　was　sure　you　d　change　your　mind。　
　No　chance　of　that；　Soraya。　
She　smiled　and　took　my　hand。　　I　m　so　lucky　to　have　found　you。　You　re　so　different　from　every　Afghan　guy　I　ve　met。　
　Let　s　never　talk　about　this　again；　okay？　
　Okay。　
I　kissed　her　cheek　and　pulled　away　from　the　curb。　As　I　drove；　I　wondered　why　I　was　different。　Maybe　it　was　because　I　had　been　raised　by　men；　I　hadn　t　grown　up　around　women　and　had　never　been　exposed　firsthand　to　the　double　standard　with　which　Afghan　society　sometimes　treated　them。　Maybe　it　was　because　Baba　had　been　such　an　unusual　Afghan　father；　a　liberal　who　had　lived　by　his　own　rules；　a　maverick　who　had　disregarded　or　embraced　societal　customs　as　he　had　seen　fit。
But　I　think　a　big　part　of　the　reason　I　didn　t　care　about　Soraya　s　past　was　that　I　had　one　of　my　own。　I　knew　all　about　regret。
SHORTLY　AFTER　BABA　S　DEATH；　Soraya　and　I　moved　into　a　one…bedroom　apartment　in　Fremont；　just　a　few　blocks　away　from　the　general　and　Khala　Jamila　s　house。　Soraya　s　parents　bought　us　a　brown　leather　couch　and　a　set　of　Mikasa　dishes　as
housewarming　presents。　The　general　gave　me　an　additional　present；　a　brand　new　IBM　typewriter。　In　the　box；　he　had　slipped　a　note　written　in　Farsi：
Amir　jan；
I　hope　you　discover　many　tales　on　these　keys。
General　Iqbal　Taheri
I　sold　Baba　s　VW　bus　and；　to　this　day；　I　have　not　gone　back　to　the　flea　market。　I　would　drive　to　his　gravesite　every　Friday；　and；　sometimes；　I　d　find　a　fresh　bouquet　of　freesias　by　the　headstone　and　know　Soraya　had　been　there　too。
Soraya　and　I　settled　into　the　routines……and　minor　wonders……　of　married　life。　We　shared　toothbrushes　and　socks；　passed　each　other　the　morning　paper。　She　slept　on　the　right　side　of　the　bed；　I　preferred　the　left。　She　liked　fluffy　pillows；　I　liked　the　hard　ones。　She　ate　her　cereal　dry；　like　a　snack；　and　chased　it　with　milk。
I　got　my　acceptance　at　San　Jose　State　that　summer　and　declared　an　English　major。　I　took　on　a　security　job；　swing　shift　at　a　furniture　warehouse　in　Sunnyvale。　The　job　was　dreadfully　boring；　but　its　saving　grace　was　a　considerable　one：　When　everyone　left　at　6　P。M。　and　shadows　began　to　crawl　between　aisles　of　plastic…covered　sofas　piled　to　the　ceiling；　I　took　out　my　books　and　studied。　It　was　in　the　Pine…Sol…scented　office　of　that　furniture　warehouse　that　I　began　my　first　novel。
Soraya　joined　me　at　San　Jose　State　the　following　year　and　enrolled；　to　her　father　s　chagrin；　in　the　teaching　track。
　I　don　t　know　why　you　re　wasting　your　talents　like　this；　　the　general　said　one　night　over　dinner。　　Did　you　know；　Amir　jan；　that　she　earned　nothing　but　A　s　in　high　school？　　He　turned　to　her。　　An　intelligent　girl　like　you　could　bee　a　lawyer；　a　political　scientist。　And；　_Inshallah_；　when　Afghanistan　is　free；　you　could　help　write　the　new　constitution。　There　would　be　a　need　for　young　talented　Afghans　like　you。　They　might　even　offer　you　a　ministry　position；　given　your　family　name。　
I　could　see　Soraya　holding　back；　her　face　tightening。　　I　m　not　a　girl；　Padar。　I　m　a　married　woman。　Besides；　they　d　need　teachers　too。　
　Anyone　can　teach。　
　Is　there　any　more　rice；　Madar？　　Soraya　said。
After　the　general　excused　himself　to　meet　some　friends　in　Hayward；　Khala　Jamila　tried　to　console　Soraya。　　He　means　well；　　she　said。　　He　just　wants　you　to　be　successful。　
　So　he　can　boast　about　his　attorney　daughter　to　his　friends。　Another　medal　for　the　general；　　Soraya　said。
　Such　nonsense　you　speak！　
　Successful；　　Soraya　hissed。　　At　least　I　m　not　like　him；　sitting　around　while　other　people　fight　the　Shorawi；　waiting　for　when　the　dust　settles　so　he　can　move　in　and　reclaim　his　posh　little　government　position。　Teaching　may　not　pay　much；　but　it　s　what　I　want　to　do！　It　s　what　I　love；　and　it　s　a　whole　lot　better　than　collecting　welfare；　by　the　way。　
Khala　Jamila　bit　her　tongue。　　If　he　ever　hears　you　saying　that；　he　will　never　speak　to　you　again。　
　Don　t　worry；　　Soraya　snapped；　tossing　her　napkin　on　the　plate。　　I　won　t　bruise　his　precious　ego。　
IN　THE　SUMMER　of　1988；　about　six　months　before　the　Soviets　withdrew　from　Afghanistan；　I　finished　my　first　novel；　a　father…son　story　set　in　Kabul；　written　mostly　with　the　typewriter　the　general　had　given　me。　I　sent　query　letters　to　a　dozen　agencie